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The motorcycle man says, “I like your legs”. “Muy bien,” I stammer, pausing to look down at my legs. “But how much do you want for the motorcycle?” Interrupted by the roar of a “chicken bus” engine, Andres, aka the motorcycle man, continues to pass judgment about my legs as I attempt to haggle down the price of an ancient Kawasaki KLR 650 motorcycle with no paperwork and dangerously bald tyres. The words Guate, Guate, Guate drift past as young men holler to locals from the open doors of bright yellow buses once used to take children to school somewhere in America now bound for the capital, Guatemala City. “Andres, I think it’s leaking oil?” His wife, Itzel, who’s wearing typical Mayan clothes the colours of tropical flowers, the busy patterns an emblem of the 1,000-year legacy of her ancestors, nods her head. All three of us are distracted momentarily by the familiar sound of gentle clapping as Doña Marie next door manipulates a mound of cornflour dough known as masa into perfectly small tortillas ready for lunch. Back to the patch of oil under the motorcycle, Andres gazes out of his shop over to the dusty bus station, the same view he’s had for the past 27 years and says: “Si, pero son gotas de calidad”! (Yes, but it’s leaking quality drops!) Guatemala’s turbulent history isn’t portrayed in the friendly faces of the locals. Itzel looks and me and gestures questioningly: “Arroz con frijol?” (rice with beans) as I’m invited for lunch. White rice, black beans and tortillas, fried chicken for them not for me. The three of us, Andres, Itzel and I, perch on beer crates and eat in comfortable silence broken only once by a young boy of around six selling cinnamon-flavoured chewing gum. Andres looks at my legs again, I’m wearing jeans. “Strong legs, you’ll need them for that motorcycle, it’s five times your size.” “Seis mil, el ultimo precio.” (Six thousand quetzales, the final price.) My mind racing, I’m trying to convert quickly in my head but am distracted by the sensory overload that is Guatemala. “$800. OK, done.” We shake on it. Andres grins. Itzel reaches out, puts her hand on my arm and squeezes in reassurance. In her mother tongue, Kaqchikel – one of the 20 or so indigenous languages of the country – she let’s me know that god is watching over me. Clutching a new set of keys and the one item of paperwork the motorcycle comes with, it was like having a newborn kitten that needs protecting. It’s an interesting exchange, too, I think to myself, considering I only left the house to buy a sandwich.